


Petting

by RussianWitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, Introspection, M/M, Pre-Slash, Q Has a Cat, UST, no cats were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13585974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: James' tanned hand looks very nice against Tribble's fur, warm and gentle—Q wonders what it would feel like on his skin?





	Petting

**Author's Note:**

> not beta'd 
> 
> blamed on everyone who gives me bad ideas

The couch is floating, or maybe just Q himself is—he isn't sure at that very moment, with the room gently spinning and—

"If my dry clearer decides to murder me, Q, I'm giving him your address," Bond says, casually enough to be discussing the weather. Tribble a ginger mop of contentment in his lap, offering his belly for rubbing like he doesn't usually run away and hide when Q brings someone home with him.

"Your off-mission, mission statement demands you protect MI6's assets, since I'm an asset you can't send your murderous dry cleaner after me!" Q reminds him, "or Tribble!" He adds, belatedly, taking another gulp of Port to celebrate.

"Perish the thought," James' tanned hand looks very nice against Tribble's fur, warm and gentle—Q wonders what it would feel like on his skin? Of course, he's far less pettable than Tribble…or Bond, he wouldn't mind petting Bond, Q thinks, approachable as he looks just then without jacket or tie, shirt unbuttoned and tie hanging loose.

He squashes the thought as soon as he has it, drinking with a colleague is fine, he drinks with a lot of them, with Eve and Eric from the IT department, and—Bond, after difficult missions…

He doesn't sleep with any of them, hasn't wanted to despite all of them being very attractive people.

"It's because you don't want to dress him up," he confides in Bond, "when Eve gets drunk, she always wants to try and dress him up…" There is a clown outfit especially for a cat somewhere in the apartment, and a devil outfit, and a—they get drunk, and Tribble hides, but they still end up ordering cat outfits online, because Eve is very persuasive and Q always ends up going along with her.

"Should I /want/ to dress up your cat?" Bond asks, his fingers drawing lazy circles in Tribble's fur, the cat's purrs growing louder with every circle. Throwing his head back, Bond looks right at him for the first time since they've settled down, he looks strange—relaxed, Q realizes, he looks at ease in Q's living room, petting Q's picky whore of a cat.

"I—think," Q shifts, kneeling up unsteadily, overbalances, and ends up with his hand on Bond's head. Bond's hair is short, slightly rough with product, it feels nice against Q's palm, so he keeps rubbing his hand against it, watching Bond watch him…

"Sorry," he murmurs, blushing, jerking his hand away like Bond is on fire, "I didn't mean—I'm drunk, I'm—I don't—I should probably go to bed." His limbs feel too long, awkward like he doesn't remember being since his teens.

The couch is far higher than he remembers, or maybe his legs have grown shorter. In any case, the glass he'd forgotten he'd been holding ends up on the floor, a deep red port stain spreading rapidly, soaking into his carpet.

Standing up feels like too much effort, he's still considering the pro's and con's of simply crawling to his bedroom, Bond says something. Q ignores it, Bond doesn't sound stressed, and if Bond doesn't sound stressed, Q can safely ignore him while sorting himself out.

He's still thinking, when Bond kneels next to him, wraps him in his arms around Q and pulls him up to lean back against Bond's hard chest. "What are you doing?" Q asks, turning his head to look at him, and ending up brushing his nose against Bond's throat. Bond smells good, soap and gunpowder, and something spicy that Q wants to taste.

"Protecting an MI6 asset of course," Bond tells him, not pulling away, even as Q squirms around, leaning closer to catch more of the scent in an attempt to figure out what it is. Not for the first time, Q wishes he was born a cat, so he could lick without consequence. Of course, if he'd been born a cat, he'd never have met Bond…

The room spins again, somehow he ends up on his feet, swaying in Bond's embrace hoping his knees will not give out. It would perhaps be better, if Bond had been born a cat, then Q could have adopted him, and petted him, as frustrating as he is as an operative—Bond would make a lovely cat.

"And suffer being dressed up, when you and Eve decide to get pickled?" The thought of dressing up Bond—having him hold still as Q undresses him, then—Q trips over his own feet, thinking about Bond standing naked in his living room.

"I don't think they make cute outfits in your size though," he muses, "maybe something in leather?" There are a lot of options with leather, Q knows, thick, rich brown leather against Bond's tanned skin…

"Leather, Q?" Bond asks, amused by the sound of him, "quite an imagination you have," he pulls Q closer, turning them into Q's bedroom. The bedroom that hasn't seen any occupants than Q and Tribble for ages—it shows too, to Q's embarrassment.

Not that Bond seems to notice, he guides Q to his bed, pushing him down onto the mattress, and for an instant Q thinks his dry-spell is over—but all Bond does, is pull Q's belt out of his trousers, then take off his shoes and socks as Q lays there, and the ceiling keeps on spinning.

Bond leans over him, his shirt falling open, giving Q an unobstructed view of Bond's mangled chest, his collarbones standing out sharply. "I'd like to paint you—on you, you'd make an interesting canvas." His fingers catch on something, one of Bond's buttons, he realizes belatedly while trying to untangle himself.

Bond is too close, Q realizes, trying to get his fingers free, leaning in further, until Q feels his breath on his cheek, then forehead. He feels the brush of slightly dry, slightly rough lips right between his brows. So soft that Q thinks he's imagined.

"Tell me when you're sober," Bond says, taking Q's hand in his and guiding it back to Q's side, "if you want."   


End file.
